Taken

Chapter 25

Warmth. And softness.

She lay in the dark, cradled by the spirits. They spoke to her, in reedy little voices, no longer cricketlike but the soft murmur of a whispered secret. They told her things.

We are the majir, they whispered. And you are one of us. Let us heal you.

They drew the hurt out of her body while she rested, unthinking, in the darkness. This was a forgiving darkness, like the small closet in the cellar where—

Don’t think on that, they said. Not yet.

It was right. That was an Unpleasant Thing, and she’d had enough Unpleasant Things to last a lifetime.

But something did nag at her. Something she needed to remember. Something important.

Someone.

Was it Lucy? No, Lucy was dead. When the tears came, they were a balm. Her grief leaked out, made the pillow wet, and the voices whispered her into a sleeplike trance while they worked, insubstantial fingers plucking at her flesh.

Gradually, other voices became audible. She listened from the darkness.

“She’ll be all right.” A big, gruff voice, a man somehow familiar. He smelled like fur and honey, ice and silver light. “Don’t worry. The majir say she’ll be just fine.”

“She’d better be.” Julia, her teeth snapping in every word. “She’s our shaman.”

“Nobody’s disputing that.” Cullen, that was his name. She could see him now, standing near a window, rain-washed light coming through. The feathers in his hair fluttered. His breath fogged the glass.

Julia was next to a bed where a small pale shape lay. It was odd, but Sophie could see the tangled mop of dark, limp curls, and she knew they were hers. It was as if she was standing at the foot of the single bed, watching the gray light play across a quilt covering her slowly rising and falling chest.

The face under the limp, unwashed hair was thin and terribly bruised. The majir covered it in a fine network of ghostly silver light, their faces turned in, long, insubstantial fingers stroking. The fingers were coaxing out something from inside the body, a kind of light and heat, encouraging it to grow across the skin and bind everything together.

A shadow fell across the door, and Julia glanced up. She looked worried, dark rings under her eyes and the pale streak in her hair glaring. “How is he?”

“Hard to tell.” Eric hunched his shoulders, touching the door frame with two fingers. He looked worried, too. “He doesn’t shift back, even while tranquilized. It takes two shamans and Brun to hold him down. Brun’s the only one he won’t kill.”

“I wish she’d wake up.” Julia sighed. “She could bring him out.”

“I dunno.” Eric scratched at his cheek. “I haven’t seen anything go through upir like that since…”

“Since Dad.” Julia’s tone softened. “He still thinks it’s his fault.”

“It’s Zach. Of course he does.” Eric’s gaze rose, touched Cullen’s broad back. “How much longer?”

“As long as it takes.” The other shaman turned away from the window. “She had six broken ribs, a broken arm, a concussion, skull fracture—should I go on? She’s shaman, so the majir are healing her directly. It takes time.”

“He doesn’t have much time left.” But Eric sighed, his shoulders slumping.

Itching spread along Sophie’s not-body. She was standing outside herself, and she realized she should be faintly alarmed by this.

“I know.” Cullen’s broad face set itself, the feathers in his hair fluttering slightly. “But if it comes down to losing him or losing a shaman…”

“God.” Julia hunched. She touched Sophie’s fingers, and the not-Sophie standing at the end of the bed felt a faint tingling warmth in her not-fingers. “Just get better, Sophie. We need you.”

“They’re doing all they can.” Eric turned. “I’m going back down. Maybe if I cook something, he’ll eat.”

Sophie watched as the bruising on her slack, unconscious face retreated, the swelling easing as if by magic.

Maybe it was magic, she thought, slowly. With werewolves, vampires, spirits, shamans—magic couldn’t be far behind, could it?

Zach. They were talking about Zach. Something had happened to him. She strained to remember, the room going fuzzy and distant.

It was an Unpleasant Thing. She waited for the majir to tell her she didn’t want to see, waited for her own brain to shiver away from a bad memory.

It didn’t happen.

Zach. He’d found her somehow. And she remembered him—it was funny, the memory kept slipping and sliding inside her, as if it hadn’t found its proper place yet—crouching in front of the rest of the vampires, hunching down defensively. It probably hadn’t occurred to him to leave her to Mark’s tender mercies.

No. She knew it hadn’t occurred to him.

Had he gotten her out of there? How?

And now he was in trouble. Something was wrong with him.

The majir crowded close.

We cannot force you, they said. You can accept our help, and be truly a shaman. We will aid you, and you will hear us. You will be part of the Tribes. There is no going back.

Well, that was a laugh, wasn’t it? There had never been any going back, for her. Not since she’d married Mark, thinking he was Prince Charming instead of a beast. Everything followed from that one mistake.

The room solidified around her. The spirits had stilled, their quicksilver smoke hanging over her body, oddly frozen. Bruises retreated visibly, swelling receding, and the body on the bed stirred slightly.

How strange, she thought. I don’t feel that at all.

It was odder still to think she could take two steps backward, and leave the room. There might be somewhere else to go, after all. Werewolves, vampires, shamans—why not heaven? Or hell?

She could be done with the whole thing, with a life spent cowering in fear. It didn’t seem like it would be difficult.

But there was Zach. He’d kidnapped her, and saved her life. He’d found her, and it sounded like he’d killed a lot of vampires to do it, too. What else had he done? How had he gotten her out of that cellar? Was he hurt? Dying, maybe?

She hesitated. The spirits said nothing. Just when she’d gotten used to their chirping all the time.

How on earth was she supposed to get back in her body?

Just as she thought it, the majir turned away from the form on the bed. They streamed toward her, and Sophie found herself reaching out with her own insubstantial hands to clasp theirs. They felt warm and tangible, just like real skin, and for a moment all their faces flushed with warmth, their mouths becoming little Os of surprise.

There was a moment of soft confusion, heat folding around her like the blooming of an orchid, and she sank into a hot darkness full of thudding.

For a moment she panicked, thinking she was back in the cellar again. But her eyelids snapped up, the light striking into the center of her head, and she realized the pounding was her own pulse, marking off time.

Her throat burned. Her body ached, her head and ribs most of all. The sheets rasped against her skin like heat on a fresh sunburn. Her scalp crawled, and she could smell herself, sick and unwashed under a rush of musk and queer silver.

Dizziness poured through her. Then someone was there, lifting her up with a gentle arm under her shoulders. A cup hit her lips, liquid filled her mouth, and she was so thirsty she drank until the burning sourness of whatever it was reached her stomach and made her eyes water. Deep retching coughs pulled at her tender ribs; she flinched and tried to cut them off.

It didn’t work.

“Easy there,” Cullen rumbled. “Goddamn.” Julia was the one holding her up, and Cullen kept pouring whatever was in the cup down despite Sophie’s spluttering. “That smells foul.”

It did. And it burned.

“It’s good for you.” Cullen’s eyes twinkled. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.” Julia’s clean hair brushed her face. “Shaman brews. Worse than distemper.”

“What would you know, cub?” The bear-man grinned. “Hello, Sophie. Glad to see you among us again.”

Whatever he was pouring down her throat burned and smelled like rocket fuel and wet seaweed, with a healthy dose of damp fur and nose-stinging mint. It was like gasoline toothpaste, for God’s sake, and he kept pouring until she spluttered again and lost half of it over her face.

“Don’t drown her, you moron!” Julia snatched her away. Sophie’s body was limp as a rag doll’s. Her muscles were all unstrung, the heat of the drink filling her belly and exploding outward. It filled her arms and legs with unsteady warmth, as if a wire had run through the middle of her bones and started glowing. The girl held her up, hugging her close. She was warm, and her musk was oddly familiar. And comforting.

Sophie coughed. The majir gathered, watching solemnly. They had done what they could for now.

The rest was up to her.

Her lips were chapped. She licked them, a residue of bitterness coating her tongue. Her mouth wouldn’t work right for a moment.

“You need more.” Cullen leaned in.

“For Christ’s sake—” Julia didn’t think much of this notion.

“Quiet, cubling.” The bear-man rumbled deep in his chest.

Sophie found her voice. “Z-Zach. Where’s Zach?”

They both went completely still.

“Just relax,” Julia finally said, steadying her. “Shaman-healing’s hard on the body. You were in bad shape.”

“Zach.” It was hard to sound firm instead of querulous. “Where is he?”

“In a safe place.” Cullen set the mug down on the nightstand. “Where he can’t hurt anyone or himself.”

“Aren’t you going to tell her the rest of it?” The words burst out, and Julia didn’t look even faintly daunted by the glance the big man gave her. “He can’t shift back. He’s gone into the rage. We have to—”

“That’s enough.” Cullen actually glowered. “We have to make sure this shaman doesn’t die of shock and join the earthbound spirits, that’s what we have to do. If you can’t shut your mouth, Carcajou, I’ll—”

“Leave her alone.” Even to herself Sophie sounded tired. “Where’s Zach? I need to see him.”

“You can’t even stand up,” the bear-man pointed out. “The majir have done what they can. You need food, and rest, and—”

You know, I have had it up to here with other people running my life. “I want to get cleaned up.” She enunciated each word clearly. “Julia can help me.”

“Right on. I’ll get everything.” The girl laid her back down, gently, and Sophie found herself sinking into pillows again. Julia bolted for the doorway, almost hit the side of it, kicked the door itself, and was gone into a white-painted hall outside in a trice.

That left Sophie looking up at Cullen, who was even bigger and broader seen from this angle. “Zach.” She moistened her dry lips again. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You don’t know anything about Carcajou.” He didn’t even bother to make it a question. His eyes were very blue, and circled with dark rings. “Of all the Tribes, they’re best at killing upir. But that’s not what they’re famous for.”

She lay there, wishing she could look at the ceiling or out the window.

“They don’t stop,” Cullen said quietly. “They never back down once they’ve picked a fight. It gets them killed a lot. But it’s the rage in them. All of us have it, but they’ve got double, and doused in diesel, too.” He sighed, heavily, shoulders slumping. “He went after you while we were all still arguing over what to do. Cut a path right through a colony of upir and took on Armitage’s wife. Turned out she’d been running her own little playground on the side, right under her hubby’s nose.”

He turned away, paced back to the window. The majir turned thin, retreating into insubstantial air.

“How do you know—”

“Armitage sent a peace envoy. Turned out we were wrong—he hadn’t offered your ex-husband the Change. His wife did. She was grooming him to be a successor, I’d guess. But that’s not our problem right now. Our problem is Zach’s still caught in his Tribe form. He’s turning into an animal without any human in him at all. He won’t eat, we have to keep him tranquilized and tied down—”

“Tied down?” The words were a dry croak.

“Otherwise, he’ll hurt himself. Or someone else. He’s still trying to rescue you.”

Oh, God. Sophie struggled to push herself up on her elbows. Made it, just barely. The unhealthy heat in her bones crested. Her stomach revolved. “Are you saying he’s—”

“That’s enough.” Julia bashed back in through the door, her arms full of towels, clothing, and—of all things—a squirt bottle. “Get the fuck out. I’m going to clean our shaman up and she’ll fix Zach, and then we’ll see who does what around here.” She dumped her cargo on the single bed and put her hands to her hips, dark eyes flashing. “You can’t have her. She’s our shaman. Our alpha rescued her. Go suck on a beehive or something.”

“She can’t even get out of bed.” Cullen sidled for the door, anyway. “You lose us this shaman, Carcajou, and your little Family will regret it.”

If they lose me, what happens? Sophie didn’t want to find out. She also didn’t want to be “lost.” It sounded a little more serious than taking the wrong bus, and if the way she felt was any indication, she’d probably been close to taking the wrong bus in a big way.

And never seeing Zach again.

“You know,” Julia said to the air over his head, “I’m really not liking this whole veiled threat thing you’ve got going on. This is our shaman. She’s not going anywhere.”

“That’s right.” Sophie surprised herself. The words came out stronger than she would have thought possible. “And I’d like a little privacy while I get cleaned up, Cullen. Thank you.”

He inclined his head at her and was gone, pulling the door shut with a muffled thump she suspected would have been a rattling bang if he hadn’t pulled it at the last second.

“Bear Tribe.” Julia made a small snorting sound. “Always so careful and cautious and stupid and boring. And that one’s got a head made out of concrete.”

You must like him. She didn’t even have the energy to say it, but Julia cocked her head as if Sophie had spoken.

“I’m sorry. You must feel awful, all covered in that crud. I’m going to fix you up, right? Then you’ll fix Zach up. Right?” She suddenly looked very young, and not at all determined. The pale streak in her hair glittered in the gray light.

As a matter of fact, with her eyes huge and round and her mouth all but trembling, Julia looked about three years old.

A weight of responsibility settled on Sophie’s aching body. They were depending on her. And she really didn’t even think she could make it to the bathroom without falling down in a heap.

Buck up, Sophie. This isn’t the first impossible thing you’ve done.

She set her jaw and lifted her chin. “Right.” It came out sounding like she actually believed it, even though it was more of a whispering croak than anything else. “You bet. But first I have to pee.”

The house was larger than she would have guessed from the narrow upstairs room, and smelled of floor wax, fabric softener, and clean healthy animals. A whole “sleuth” of Bear Tribe lived here, and the house was full of them.

And they were all nervous. Sophie got the idea it was because they weren’t quite sure what Zach would do.

Her scalp still itched. Julia had helped her to the bathroom, where Sophie stared longingly at the shower before getting rid of some serious bladder pressure. Then it was the laborious process of scrubbing off dirt and dried blood. It was curiously like having a mother scrub a child—Julia evinced no embarrassment whatsoever, and it was hard for Sophie to even blush when she was concentrating so hard on staying upright.

There were stairs, which Julia half carried her down, Sophie’s arm over her slim shoulders. Two bear-people were in the hall—a stocky woman who nodded at Sophie and a smaller, wider young man with beads braided into his long dishwater hair. He smelled somehow pale, and when a low sound ran through the house’s walls he actually flinched.

“That’s Zach,” Julia whispered. “If he gets free the sleuth will have to stop him.”

Stop him. Sophie concentrated on one foot in front of the other. Her arms and legs were as weak as a newborn kitten’s. The drink was still burning in her, heat running through her bones, but she didn’t like the unsteady queasy feeling following in its wake. I don’t think they’ll be baking him cupcakes. I think she means “kill him” but doesn’t want to say it.

The hall passed a living room, three bear-people clustered around a television, playing a video game. One of them glanced up, sniffing, and stared at Sophie. Two more bear-people were on the couch, sleeping snuggled together like cats. An older man hunched in front of the window, watching the street. He held a shotgun easily, and yawned without blinking. More pale light fell through the window and picked out the wiry coarseness of his hair.

The entrance to the basement was in the kitchen. The kitchen was packed with people, all smelling of fur, a few of them with the cold silver smell Sophie was emitting now, too. One of them, a woman with so much eyeliner on she looked bruised, was perched on the counter next to the sink, turning a foil pie plate around in her clever little hands.

They all froze when Sophie appeared.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” the bruise-eyed woman with the pie pan said.

“I want to see Zach.” Sophie lifted her chin.

“That one can’t go with you.” The pie pan made a crinkling noise. “She’s too dominant. Timbo, where’s the sub-Carcajou?”

“Downstairs.” This was another eyeliner-painted girl, but without the authority of the one on the counter. “I’ll get him.”

The woman nodded. Something about her quick hands and her ringed eyes was oddly familiar, as well. “Be careful.”

“Brun will take you down,” Julia said in Sophie’s ear. There was a low thrumming sound from below the floor, and everyone in the room tensed again. “Anyone else would smell too dominant.”

“This is his mate?” A young man, a bear by the look of him, leaned against a door that must lead out to the backyard.

Mate? Sophie blinked. What?

“Yup.” Julia sounded proud. “Fell in love with her right away. That’s why he went and rescued her while you idiots were all running around in yapping circles.”

“Better put a leash on that girl’s mouth, shaman.” The raccoon-eyed woman on the counter rattled the pie pan. Her nose wrinkled. “She’s not making any friends.”

Somehow Sophie doubted making friends was high on Julia’s agenda. She decided to distract her. “Mate? Does that mean what I think it means?”

A ripple of amusement ran through the assembly just as the cellar door opened and Brun appeared.

He looked tired, and like he’d lost a few pounds. His clothes were disheveled and painted with dirt, and there was a massive, fantastic bruise up the side of his face. His hair hung lank and greasy, and his eyes were wet and red-rimmed.

But he brightened when he saw Sophie. “Oh, thank God.” The instant relief was kind of scary. What was even scarier was that she could smell it, through a wash of musk that was eerily familiar—and just as comforting as Julia’s scent.

“Hold her up.” Julia straightened, and Brun pushed through the crowded room. He looked even more thin and tired up close.

Sophie’s arm was over his shoulder in a trice. “He’s getting more and more upset.” Brun’s entire body vibrated nervously, trembling. “And it looks a little…well…”

“It’s okay.” Sophie gathered what little strength she had left. The burning in her bones was fading fast. Whatever Cullen had dosed her with, it was doing its job—but it was wearing off. “Just get me down there.”

“Okay.” Brun’s trembling eased. “Thank God you’re here. I was beginning to get worried.”

The crowd parted. How could so many people fit into one kitchen? Or did the smell of them make them seem bigger than they were?

“That’s me,” Sophie said weakly. “Showing up in the nick of time.” Or rather, that’s Zach. He saved my life.

There were rickety wooden stairs. She hung on to Brun and got a faceful of strong musk, and a red smell. It was probably a good thing she was too tired to be afraid, because the red smell reminded her of fists meeting flesh, of screaming, of contorted faces and pain.

It was the aroma of rage.

A shape moved on the stairs. It was another shaman; her nose told her it was a male bear before her eyes deciphered long hair and a strong jaw. The ice-and-silver smell came off him in waves, and Sophie took a deep breath. Unfamiliar relaxation washed through her, and she suddenly understood a whole lot more about this entire thing.

“Good Christ,” the bear-shaman said. “Look at you. You should be in bed.”

“That’s what they keep telling me.” Sophie’s eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. Brun carried her past the man, letting out a slight hiss as he stumbled.

Sophie had a sudden vision of falling down into the cellar and would have winced, if she could. That would just top everything off, wouldn’t it?

A loud, low growl filled the air, rattling her entire body. She recognized it even as Brun flinched, his scent curiously masked by the deeper musk in the room.

Another shape loomed in the dimness. It was Cullen; her nose identified him with no help from her eyes. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Positive,” Sophie lied. “Point me at him.”

“He’s tied. Right over there.” Brun pointed, and her eyes adjusted a little more. “Against the wall, and—”

“I see him.” Her heart gave a painful leap. She did see him. The long, lean shape, sliding with fur, his eyes flat shining discs. There was a flash of white teeth, and the nose lifted, sniffing.

The low thunder of the growl stopped.

Until that moment Sophie hadn’t realized just how loud it had been. It had been running through the house like the vibration of a subway, and the sudden cessation was ominous.

Cullen drifted back toward the stairs, so quietly Sophie barely noticed him moving.

“What do I do?” she whispered.

The furred shape against the wall sniffed again. She could see the ropes now—several of them were broken and messily slopped over with fresh ones. He must have been struggling for a long time.

“I have no idea,” Brun whispered back. His pale aroma almost vanished under the welter of confusing smells in the basement. “Can you get close to him? I’m…”

He was afraid to get any closer. Sophie summoned every last scrap of strength. “I think I can.” I might fall flat on my face. What will happen then?

“I’d try talking to him first,” Cullen offered.

At the sound of his voice the growl came back, a warning.

“Now stop that,” Sophie said, sharply.

The rumbling died, spiraling slightly up at the end like a question.

She braced herself, pushed away from Brun, and took two weaving, faltering steps. “Zach? I know it’s you. I’m right here, I’m okay. I kind of need to talk to you.”

No sound. The furred shape hunched on itself, and she thought she saw it shiver. It was a challenge to stay upright. She tacked out over the uneven concrete floor, and the similarity to the wine cellar would have made her shudder if she hadn’t been concentrating so hard on not falling on her face.

“Zach?” Her voice sounded very small. “I really would like to talk to you.”

The shape erupted into wild motion. Sophie let out a short, surprised cry, tipping over, as ropes snapped. Her knees failed, her eyes shut tight, and she had enough time to think I’m going to hit, it’s going to hurt, dammit—

—before something broke her fall. Something hairy, very warm, smelling of musk, and growling loudly enough to shake the foundations.

The noise stuttered, stopped. They were definitely arms around her; she hadn’t hit the floor. Tension filled the air, made it thick and hard to breathe.

She peeked out into the darkness, daring to open her eyes.

The animal’s face was inches from hers. He inhaled, deeply, blew the air back out, and inhaled again. Those teeth were curved and wicked, and the flat shine of the eyes reminded her of a cat’s eyes at night.

It looked like it could eat her. But she’d still take this over Mark’s plummy, contorted face any day.

This was one monster she didn’t have to be afraid of.

“Zach,” she whispered. He kept sniffing her. “Come back. Please.”

He stopped sniffing. A shudder went through him. The strength in those arms could snap her in half, but she felt only a dozy faraway concern that she might pass out before he came back.

That’s funny, I can see him in there. Why can’t they?

There was a crackling, creaking sound like boughs snapping under icy weight. Fur melted, and he shuddered. Bones restructured themselves as she watched, fascinated, the dimness down here suddenly kind.

He was shaking. So was she. The arms holding her thinned as his face rose from behind the animal’s. He went heavily to his knees, the jolt going all through her, and Sophie raised her leaden arms.

“S-s-s-s—” He stuttered, his lips working over the word.

He’s still trying to say my name. Her heart cracked again. She finally got her arms around him.

“That’s nice,” she murmured. “Do you do parties?”

And the darkness became complete, the heat of Cullen’s drink deserting her at last. But this blackness was kind, and even as she drifted away she saw the majir smiling with approval, stroking Zach’s trembling shoulders.

“Sophie—” He was hoarse, his voice scraped raw.

She was out.